Thoughts of a Suicidist

I’m going to be familiar with her soon so why not get to know her now? After Lady Death killed my wife and semi-new born daughter during child birth, I’ve wanted to meet her as well. I want to enact my revenge. It’s been three weeks to this day that she tossed their bodies in the river of purgatory. There, they wallow in pain along with other souls who have nowhere to go.

I would have killed myself earlier, but out of respect for my late wife’s family, I had to handle the funeral, insurance, and family obligations. Staying alive these last weeks has been the most agonizing experience since my parents were killed in the 1983 U.S. Embassy bombing while working in Beirut.

They were casualties of a suicide bomb, and I, casualty to misery.

I know how much suffering is involved since that experience, and know undoubtedly, that I cannot live. My wife accepted me with all my baggage, all my pain, and loved me purely for it. She was the reason I first experienced joy and came to accept the death of my family.

I guess I was an evil soul in my last life because I am paying for it in this life. Lady death lurks around those I love. The bitch refuses to take me; she wants me to suffer first. I am not going to let her kill anyone else I love. I am no longer going to let her cause my suffering. She will be forced to meet me and the date has been set.

A week from today, I will dive off the NBC building and follow the direction used most of my life, downwards.

I contemplated putting a cold barrel against my head to inject a smooth bullet against the flesh of my brain. But, I never liked guns to begin with. Those NRA members were always borderline racists and smelled of patriotism, a stench so potent, it would make you nauseated.

I thought of mimicking rock stars and overdosing. Big Pharma gave me a fountain of anti-depressants after the deaths of my girls. But I don’t want to take a chance and be numb. I need to be fully capable of killing myself and don’t need the ‘feel’ to stop.

I remember as a kid, I was always afraid of heights. So, I figured why not face my fear while plummeting to my death?

You know, I always thought I cared and loved my friends and my wife’s family. But after she died, I realized it doesn’t compare to what I felt for her. Now, her family and our friends are trying to support me during this hardship. They try to take me to these fucking 12 step programs where I’m supposed to feel better if I talk about it. Well, for anyone who lost someone to the call of death, it will only create a void in your heart.

Forget the person who no longer breathes. Burn all the photos, erase the home videos, and throw out the clothes so you no longer smell residues of the living that you loved so dearly. Press back space in your mind and remove those memories. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be so numb you can go through life mechanically, with no ability to feel.

As for me, I don’t do any of that; I need to be dejected, wretched, and miserable to be able to splatter the ground with my flesh, bones, and insides.

My coworkers send condolences and flowers. Flowers!!? How is this supposed to make me happy? The flowers die within days due to the negative and gloomy aura I radiate. Letters reading, “sorry for your loss,” cover the entrance of the door. The bastards won’t understand what ‘sorry’ really is until they experience it themselves.

Now, people sleepover to keep me company no matter how often I say, “I’ll be fine, thanks anyways.” I guess all these people mean well, but I just want to be left alone. They don’t matter; nothing does, except the silence of my heart beating.

I don’t know what I am going to do when I finally pass over and meet Lady Death, the one who has ruined my life and taken those I love away from me. She will pay for what she has done!

She began her crusade against my happiness with my parents. At a pivotal time in my adolescence, my parent’s hugs and kisses came to a halt. I remember sliding my hand in my mom’s sleeve when we cuddled in bed. It was always so warm and comforting. Or the nights I would have bad dreams and rushed for shelter in my dad’s arms. Nothing could touch me while I was with him, I always felt so safe. I remember the weekend afternoons of just Dad and me kicking the ball around.

After their death, the ball lay motionless and abandoned in my backyard. My mom’s voice no longer entered my ear every night when she used to read my bed time stories. So many happy memories were cast out and replaced with dreadful ones.

Hugs and kisses were sold out; I never had them again until I met my wife. Warmth and comfort crumbled in the coffins alongside my parent’s charred bodies. My bad dreams were no longer just in my sleep but while I was awake. Bed time stories were the sounds of other children crying in the foster homes.

My parents were the first victims of Lady Death, and now she stopped the smiles of my wife. She prevented my daughter’s first walk, first kiss, and first job; has stopped her life entirely.

Damn it’s just so hard to not think of her. Every memory is so real, so strong. I fantasize hours and hours of her. The dimples on her face, the little tiny freckle right by her belly button. I remember we would be rolling around our bed acting like children. I would blow air on her stomach, make weird noises with my mouth. I always told her that her freckle was mine. No man would ever be allowed to touch it even if we had ever divorced. I’d tell her, “in the future if we aren’t together, and you remarry, they can touch every part of your body except the freckle by your belly button.” She always laughed at my nonsense and just kissed me with a big smile on her face.

Oh, how much I wish I could just place my face on her neck as I used to do. It was so smooth, so soft, and she smelled so good. The thought of her scent intoxifies me. It was my favorite place to be. I would kiss her neck constantly and at times hold her down and tickle her just so I could hear her laugh. It gave me so much joy.

I hate thinking of her and my unborn baby that I got to know only through my wife’s belly. Thoughts of them make me feel as if all my air is sucked out, as if my warmth and blood evaporated, as if my heart beats but without the sound.

Soon, I will no longer eat lunch on top of tombstones in the cemetery.

Soon, I’ll be the lunch of the worms that live 6ft under. Don’t know how much of my remains will be available after I paint the street red with blood, but that is only the physical body, I won’t need that in the afterlife.

It’s been a week. Tonight is the night I embark on a voyage of anger, hate, and despair.

You would think I would be scared standing on this ledge, 34 stories high. When I was a kid, I wouldn’t go on a slide that was too high.

Guess, since I am no longer scared of death, I now know how to live.

The last seconds of my life were invigorating. I pierced through the air and felt as if I was one with the elements. As the pavement got closer and closer, I felt like I was going faster and faster all the while I kept my eyes open when I became one with the floor.

In an instance, I wake up, and in front of me is a colorless figure. It is Lady Death. I can feel the coldness surround me. Around us, a nothingness. No life flashing before my eyes and sure as hell no bright, warm, shining light. I try to get up to harvest my revenge I so badly wanted but I couldn’t move. Nothing was holding me down and yet I couldn’t even see if I had a body or not. I should have felt scared but my hate and anger for her buried any fear deep down. As I spewed hatred towards her, she moved in closer and a smile became visible from the darkness that consumed her essence.

Slowly, her essence began to vaporize upwards. All the while I felt myself slowly grow fainter and faded away into her. My screams and attempts to move away only hurried the process. My light began to turn into dark.

Unfortunately, my plan to get retribution didn’t go as I expected. Lady Death tricked me and I only realized what was happening when it was too late. Since the day of my birth she planned this moment. Only when she kills someone who hates more than she will she be free. My whole life was set for me to take her place.

My hate was so strong it left my soul and replaced it in her. Now, I am forever caged until someone more hateful than I arrives and seizes my place.

I must take warm bodies and make them cold. I travel the world in my chariot of lost souls and bring both solace and suffering to people.

Don’t answer my call, for I am death.

***Thank you for taking the time to read my work. If you enjoy what you read; please share, like, and comment. All of these details help me drastically and will allow me to write more often. Thank you for your support!***

I’ve been weeping the last hour and decided to secretly begin collecting my notes and continue writing. It’s sort of a suicide “why I did it/there’s nothing you could’ve done”. I think if I successfully convey every point I see clearly in my head, I think they might just get it, sort of. Anyway,
I googled “Thoughts of a …” and I realized I didn’t even know if there was a word for someone committed to, or I guess someone fully accepting… Anyway, I saw your link, and wasn’t sure if this was some teen just posting some immature emo dribble. I read 3 quarters the way through and my weeping slowed and I found myself absolutely gripped to your words. Incredible. Amazing writing. Honestly, that was a sign that when I look for more things you’ve done, I won’t be disappointed in the least. Keep up the writing. Seriously.
– R.I.Calix

It is comments like these that continue to fuel me, motivate me, and bring out more of a desire in me to write. Thank you so much. I truly hope that what made you weep is over and done with, and you begin to feel refreshed and happy again. Thank you again.

Interesting. If this is a true story, I hope the author is still with us. So much tragedy for one person to bare. I’m working with a group of people to combat high rates of suicide in my community in southern Ontario, Canada. I’d like the author to contact me by email at jtmtpleasant2@hotmail.ca.

I wrote this piece. It isn’t a true story. I am a Social Worker and hear so many things, it inspired me to write this piece of various experiences I have heard. Thank you for your concern. Great job on your work. Keep it up. We need more people like you.